I Dare You to Live
by Etheromaniac
Summary: It's what her grandmother used to always say. The words were quite possibly the only constant in her life and yet it took until now to finally understand them. It took falling in and out of love, it took dropping out of college, and it took joining the Army for her to completely and utterly embrace the phrase. And for that she would never regret the journey it took to get here...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Your Journey Starts Now

* * *

_"Dammit Santana, why must you always push my buttons?"_

_"Well, maybe if you were a better mother we wouldn't be having this conversation!"_

_"Fine. You want to be an ungrateful child? Maybe your father will appreciate your attitude."_

_"And maybe dad will actually appreciate me."_

_"You're moving down south before the summer is over."_

_"Fantastic! I can't wait."_

_July 26, 1975_

Santana Lopez understood that her mother was serious about her living with her father. Nevertheless, she was not, and as she stood in the cramped living room of the row house that she once considered home, staring hard at the pale green and yellow wallpaper, she held regret over that day. She hadn't meant to claim her mother as a poor parent; she just wasn't the greatest. But whose parents were perfect anyway? As far as she knew, all of her friends were from "broken homes" too.

Despite being raised by a single parent for the last six years, Santana often silently admitted that matters could be worse. Her mother could have completely neglected her maternal job, she could have been addicted to heroin as quite a few mothers were, she could have been an alcoholic, or abusive. The situations were endless and she ended up with a pretty decent one.

The problem, however, lay with her younger sister, who often gained their mother's attention and adoration. The brunette s gruffly as she remembered the final card that knocked over the whole house, the incident that sparked the confrontation a mere two weeks ago.

The Latina wasn't a troublemaker, at least not actively so. She had good grades, mostly good behavior, and she participated in the typical adventures of a sixteen year old in Brooklyn. She never asked for much, at least no more than what her mother and grandmother could provide, and she usually could handle whatever was thrown her way. Yet, that was before her sister became a problem child, though, apparently Santana was the only one who could see what a bad seed Juliet was. Through everyone else's eyes, the little brunette was a perfect angel who knew no wrong. If she did manage to cause chaos, she was constantly excused for a child just being a child or Santana somehow was to blame.

Case in point, a couple of months ago their mother bought a cake for their grandmother's birthday. It was quite possibly the prettiest cake Santana had ever seen. Chocolate with vanilla frosting and baby blue and yellow swirls alternatively placed on the sides and top of the sweet dessert. In pink icing it spelled Happy 50th Birthday Alma in a delicate cursive form. Her _abuela_ was going to love it, or at least she would have if Juliet hadn't decided she wanted to taste it the day before. By the time Santana found her she had icing all around her mouth, cake mushed in her right hand, and a completely ruined cake sitting between her legs.

The evidence was overwhelmingly incriminating and yet Santana still shouldered the blame alone.

_"Juliet's just a child,"_ her mother said. _"You should have stopped her. You're her older sister, act like it."_

Santana desperately wanted to counter with the fact that Juliet is ten and should know better, something she was often scolded and punished for when she was that age. Instead, she stared in disbelief as she was grounded for a crime she didn't commit once again. No matter how many times it happened, Santana repeatedly found it mind-baffling as to how she was to blame. How did that work?

Sadly, incidents like that happened too often to count. It was nothing compared to the really bad occurrences, situations where she was physically disciplined. Those moments called for Santana to pay in kind. Those moments found her beating her sister the second they went to bed. It was the only time she was thankful they shared a room, and she made sure Juliet stayed quiet during and after the ordeal. Yes, she felt guilty after, she always felt remorse, but what else was she to do? It was simply unfair that the little brat got away with murder.

Juliet knew what she was doing. She loved exploiting her position in the house as a spoiled child.

She _told_ Santana that she was her bitch.

A fucking ten-year old said she was her bitch.

And that's when Santana began to realize that enough was enough. Well, that and the fact that Juliet pushed her down the stairs. Her little sister pushed her down a flight of stairs, sixteen steps to be exact, and had the nerve to pull the victim act when their mother came running. According to Juliet, they were rough-housing, Santana got too rough, she tried to defend herself, and thus her big sister's crumbled form at the bottom of the steps. According to Santana…she didn't even get a say in the tale.

The next few minutes were crucial to Santana. It was the climax in her life to date, a pivotal point she thought would end well when her mom asked if she was okay instead of yelling at her. Considering she fell down sixteen goddamn stairs, yes, she felt pretty okay and said as much.

It was the wrong answer and she didn't even say the first part. No, she knew better than to talk back let alone take the Lord's name in vain.

Her mother charged down the steps and proceeded to beat her, accusing her of almost harming her precious little sister, and blaming Santana for the fall because she "shouldn't have been 'playing' near the steps in the first place."

When it was all said and done, Santana ended up going to the hospital later that night for a sprained ankle. Her grandmother took her since somebody had to watch Juliet. It was on the ride home that she reached the resolution to her predicament. She couldn't be in that house any longer; it was no longer home to her.

_"Do you want to know why your _mami_ treats you and _Julieta_ so differently, _Santanita_?"_

_"Why, _abuela_?"_

_"Because when you turned fourteen and she turned eight, someone told your mother that you were old enough to take care of yourself and that your sister would need all of the attention. Do you know who that was?"_

_"No,_ abuela_."_

_"Your _Tia Alejandra_. She was often jealous because I paid far more attention to your mother. Alex didn't make it easy but I now see the errors in my ways. For that I am sorry. _Perdóname, Santanita_."_

_"It's okay, _abuela_. _Te perdono_."_

It was quite possibly the softest her grandmother had ever talked to her. It was also the first time she ever said sorry and asked for forgiveness. Santana didn't quite understand the circumstances revolving around her mother, her grandmother, and her aunt; regardless, like she said, it was okay, or it was going to be okay, or so she had hoped.

Santana confronted her mother, explained that she knew her reasons, tried to make her see new reason, and it blew up in Santana's face. Her mother saw her approach as a threat to parenthood; Santana's words only confirmed it, so now she was on her way to being shipped to Virginia.

A groan escaped plump lips as Santana settled in the aged rocking chair that forevermore sat in the far corner of the living room. She was waiting for her mother who was seemingly taking forever to get ready. Perhaps she was having second thoughts? Santana hoped as much for the wrong reason. She just wished she was being sent to live with her _abuela_ and not her father. She would take the Bronx and nicknames like garbage face over a military lifestyle and base housing. She didn't miss living there during the summer and hadn't been back in three years. It wasn't just her father or his family that she despised; it was Virginia as a whole. It was nothing compared to glorious New York City. Santana didn't know what she was going to do when she gets there. She wasn't a kid anymore whose excitement was simple to satisfy when forced to stay with relatives every summer from age six to ten.

"Are you ready, Santana?"

"_Si, mami_. I'm in the living room." Santana yelled back, being as said older Latina was still upstairs. What could possibly be taking her so long?

In spite of the late start to an early morning, this gave Santana a chance to view the house one last time, what used to be her home. Having lived there for sixteen years made her blind to how small everything was.

The space from the miniature vestibule to the stairs was barely covered by the half wall that started the living room. The stairs were narrow, yet as a kid who rode the laundry basket down those wooden steps every chance she could, it seemed as wide as an ocean. Along the stairwell were various pictures of what used to be a happy family.

The living room was the largest room in the house. It was cozy during the day but it held many parties many nights. Since the stairs didn't have any obstacles and was connected to the living room, Santana frequently found herself sneaking a view of the adults that cheered and danced before her. Contrary to the phrase held during the day, at night children were not to be seen or heard.

The rocking chair was Santana's favorite and least favorite seat. Her father used to sing to her in that chair, serenading her and her mother with the most wonderful Spanish tunes in his sweet baritone voice, even if Spanish wasn't his native tongue she found herself unceasingly enraptured. She and baby Juliet used to watch their parents salsa around the second-hand coffee table in that chair, laughing and trying to imitate the easy-flowing moves. She also watched her father hit her mother for the first and last time from that chair, and hid under it when her mother returned the favor by smacking him with a cast iron pan. From the day they divorced it went downhill as every few months or so Santana was introduced to a new "uncle" she never heard of before.

Watching television was only special for cartoons or wrestling with her other grandmother, Mom-Mom as she liked to be called. There was nothing quite like the excitement of Mom-Mom's soulful cooking and jumping up and down on the lone couch in bewilderment as grown men wrestled. Her _abuela_ admonished such entertainment perpetually. Sadly, such joys ended with the divorce and even more so when Daloris Walker died a year later from a heart attack. Santana would later find herself often wondering if she really died of a heart attack or just from her heart breaking over her parents.

The dining room and kitchen were relatively small but served their purpose for family meals and the like well. Santana loved to watch her mother cook. She did it with such grace and ardor, and the mouth-watering aromas from the many spices she used filled up the house for days. Santana continually thought her mother looked the happiest when cooking. She would sing and hum and tango and twirl like she was truly in her element. Too bad being a chef was never recognized nor achieved for Maribel Lopez, instead, she settled for being a waitress.

There wasn't much joy to be had upstairs. The rooms were compact with very little distance between her mother's room, the bathroom, her and Juliet's room, and the spare room that was, for the most part, filled with junk. If the space wasn't suffocating enough, the design was, but it was one fatal memory that never failed to leave Santana breathless whenever it spontaneously spawned from time to time.

Three years ago, Santana was raped by one of her "uncles" in her mother's bedroom. It was a rare moment when she had to ride her bike to and from school because her mother was taking Juliet to a doctor's appointment and her _abuela_ was busy running errands. At first, she didn't understand why he was there, then he claimed that her mother wanted to make sure someone was home to watch over her. It was a completely believable reason, a little too believable, yet Santana went about her day and continued to head to her room to start her homework. Everything was fine until he called for her, asking for assistance in finding an object in her mother's room. She didn't like going in her mother's room in the first place for it still reminded her of her father, it didn't help that she felt betrayed that summer for he had another family by then. Still, when an adult beckoned for a child, the child had no choice but to listen.

She never told anyone about the incident, which fortunately nothing even more misfortunate came from it, but the guy was enough of a sleazeball to be kicked to the curb on his own. It was quite possibly the last time she felt like a proud sister, because if that had happened to Juliet, Santana would have never forgave herself. The only consequence to that matter was the reinforcement of her avoiding her mother's room, and that was something Santana could live with.

As a whole, the place wasn't much of a home; still, Santana couldn't deny the many memories that lay within it, both good and bad. To say she would miss it would be false; on the other hand, it would always be in her heart, as would her mother and that Devil's spawn Juliet. They were still her family at the end of the day, more so than her father, and for that thought, tears started running down her face.

"Alright, Santana. _¡Vámonos!_ We're already an hour and twenty minutes behind-" her mother had finally entered the living room but froze at the sight of her crying daughter. "Santana, what's wrong?"

After receiving no reply, she stepped closer until she was standing in front of the smaller brunette.

"_Santanita_?"

Maribel hadn't called her that in years.

"_Mami_!" Santana bolted up right and into her mother's arms, hugging her tightly and wishing to never let or be let go. "_Lo siento, mami. Lo siento_."

"No." Santana tensed at the firm tone, but she relaxed as Maribel stroked her hair and back soothingly. "I'm sorry, _mija_. I'm sorry for neglecting your needs and your pain. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, _mami_. _Te perdono_."

"No, it's not okay, and it may never be." At that, her mother pulled away only to press a kiss to her forehead and look into her eyes. "It's good that you're leaving. Maybe things will be different in Virginia; maybe we just need time a part. You'll be a woman soon, an adult, and I don't want any of this holding you back. I've always seen what a great person you are, what a great daughter you are. I'm sorry I'm only now expressing it, _Santanita_."

"_Mami_-"

"_Shh_, let me finish." Maribel pulled her daughter back into a tight hug. "You are beautiful and smart and you have so much potential, _mija_. So much potential. But, you will not succeed here, not with me. I too still have lessons to learn. And when we both get far with those lessons, may we talk like this again as better women and as a better mother to her perfect daughter, _entiende_?"

"_Si_,_ mami_." Santana sniffled.

"Now, what does _abuelita_ always say?"

"_Me atrevo a vivir_."

"That's right. I dare you to live, _Santanita_. I dare you to become more than I ever could, to become more than this place."

The rest of the morning went by faster than Santana thought possible after that sentimental moment. She and her mom packed what bags and boxes that could fit in the tiny Chevrolet Impala, the rest would be shipped before school started. By eight-fifteen, they dropped Juliet at Alma's house and so Santana could say her last goodbyes before they hit the highway. Next thing Santana knew, they were whizzing by the "Welcome to Virginia Beach" sign after six hours on the road. In a matter of minutes, the chipped vibrant red vehicle was squeaking and groaning its way onto a gravel covered driveway.

She was officially in Virginia Beach. She was officially spending the next two years with her father and _his_ family, and she was officially spending two years in no-man's land. If the groan that slipped from her wasn't a good indication of her displeasure then the disgruntled look upon her face said it loud and clear.

"It's not that bad, Santana." Maribel tried to reassure her as she hushed the engine.

"Mom, you don't understand. He's your ex-husband, it's not as bad."

A look of disapproval was shot her way before her mother exited the car. Santana quickly followed suit.

"Sorry, _mami_, but…it's just," she exhaled and leaned her head, face down, against the car frame.

"I understand, really, I do. Your father is a hard man to get along with, especially since he became more military oriented."

"Understatement of the year."

"_Santanita_!" Her mother chided.

"Sorry!"

"Two years, Santana, just two years then you're your own person. I know you can do this." Maribel walked to the other side of the car and hugged her. "Just think, no more Juliet, no more Alma, and no more of me. All at the cost of what? A few rules, a catty wife, and your step-brother, who you're genuinely good friends with?"

"I suppose."

Her mother kissed her forehead one last time then headed for the porch of the two and a half story house. "You'll be fine."

Santana chanced a quick glance of the area, spotting several nosy neighbors (read: military wives.) She sighed again and limped after her mom to the storm door just as she rang the doorbell. It took another buzz, after three minutes of waiting, for someone to eventually answer. Naturally, it would be the person neither of them liked.

"Oh, what a surprise. We were expecting you earlier. Better late than never, right Maribel?"

"Good afternoon, Shannel," was the Latina's curt response.

The lanky black woman chuckled in an annoyingly high pitch before turning a condescending gaze to Santana.

"Good afternoon, Santana," she greeted nasally. The younger Latina simply grunted in return. Even so, an elbow from her mother forced an actual greeting from her lips. "I'm glad you found your manners."

The tension between the three was high and continuing to rise, but Maribel quickly cut it lest it reach boiling point. "Where's Lance?"

"In the gym. My man has to stay fit; he's not a Hospital Corpsman, First Class for nothing."

Santana and Maribel exchanged glances at the bragging act. They never understood why she always resorted to such a tactic when it should have been fairly obvious neither of them cared. Santana wasn't missing her father that much and Maribel even less so for her ex-husband. He could keep his level E-6 pay grade.

"Then can you go get him?"

"Sure." Shannel scowled at what she thought was an implication of her being the help. "Sit tight and don't steal anything."

If it was anyone else, surely Santana would have shown her what it meant to be raised in Brooklyn, not to mention the Bronx; present mother be damned. She almost forgot her sprained ankle too until a massive form burst through the doorway, brushed past his mother, and nearly bowled Santana over. Had she not been promptly swept off her feet, she would have cursed the idiot to hell and back if she was injured further.

"Hello, Matt. It's good to see you're no longer puny."

A deep chuckle rumbled from the chest her face was pressed against. "I was never puny."

"Says the one who hid behind me as a kid, despite being older and taller, to protect him from the Bogeyman." Santana reminded, patting his surprisingly muscled arms awkwardly. She wasn't much for hugs unless it was her mother or grandmother. "Now, let me go Rutherford, I think you bruised a rib."

Another chuckle burst from the young man's lips as he acquiesced and relinquished his hold on his younger step-sister. It had been three years since they last saw each other, therefore he missed her greatly. She was the only one that helped him cope with the madness of living in a military home. She was, without a doubt, the sister he never wanted at first but was glad to have in his life.

Matt swiftly turned to Maribel and gave her the same treatment. "Good afternoon, Ms. Lopez."

"Oh, goodness," she let out a breathy laugh, returning the strong embrace. "How many times must I tell you that Maribel is fine?"

"What happened to you? Found the perks of having a Navy medic as a step-father?" Santana teased.

"Santana." Maribel berated as she was set on stable ground and they entered the house to settle in the living room.

"What? It's a serious question. He used to be this gangly kid, now he looks like a jock."

"That would probably be 'cause I am."

"You're shitting me – OW!" Santana hissed after having her head bopped by her mom. "What?"

"Don't you 'what' me." Maribel glared. "Do not think for a second that living here excuses you from my punishment. If I hear you get into any trouble I will drive down here and put you back in place. And if I can't make it, you know your _abuela_ will gladly take Greyhound down here in my place."

"Yes ma'am."

Matt would have chuckled at his step-sister's predicament except he was practically in the same boat. His biological father, though no longer fully immersed in his life, did keep note of his activities from time to time. The last time he displeased his father was when he spoke against his mother for marrying another man hardly a year after dating him. His father smacked him good and hard for that comment. He hadn't meant to insinuate that his mom was a slut, he just couldn't understand how she moved on so quickly and for someone she barely knew.

Speaking of the man, HM Lance Walker strode into the spacious sitting area from a hallway that connected to the dining room. He was donned in his usual workout gear, the typical navy blue track pants with white stripes along the legs, running sneakers, and a grey tee with his name and rank stitched on the left breast and NAVY printed on the back. Even with slight sweat stains under his arms and perspiration coating his forehead, he still looked impeccable as true to the military name. It almost put Matt, Santana, and Maribel to shame, regardless of their casual attire. Then again, it could have just been the way the man carried himself.

"Maribel, Santana," he greeted rather shortly, though, that seemed to be in his nature since embodying the Navy more. "It's good to see you."

"_Buenas tardes_, Lance."

"Hi…_papi_."

No hugs were exchanged nor were any warm smiles. In fact, an awkward atmosphere settled in quite quickly once everyone was acknowledged. Matt and Santana eyed one another warily, anticipating some sort of explosion between her parents as expected of them when placed in the same vicinity.

"I think I'll start unloading the car," declared Santana as she hopped up only to wince and almost flop back on the pristine and plastic-covered sofa. She grimaced even more when she face planted against the hideous object. It was probably Shannel's doing that her father got rid of the cool and comfy furniture.

"You are in no condition to do such a thing, _Santanita_. Matt and I will take care of it." Maribel asserted, standing from the same couch just as Matt stood from the recliner (the only piece that escaped the living room reform.) "You don't mind, do you Matt?"

"Not at all Ms. Lo – I mean – Maribel," he smiled and followed her out of the house, but not before flicking Santana's knee and fleeing from her imminent wrath.

Though the main cause of the tension from earlier was gone, there was still some uneasiness permeating in the air. Father and daughter hadn't seen one another or talked to each other in three years, or four if you want to be technical. No matter how much Santana put up a façade that his absence didn't bother her, she still found herself feeling rather morose when June 16th came around. That was the last time she saw him and she had to admit he changed drastically since then. She supposes not being able to see ones children for three years would change a man.

She didn't mean mentally and emotionally only; he changed physically too. To others he may have seemed the same, even better maybe, but of course his daughter could see the small changes. He looked tired, his dark eyes speaking volumes of what his body refused to show. She could have sworn she saw a few wrinkles along his forehead yet that could have been a trick of the sun through the windows. He shaved his hair to a near buzz cut, not that he had much hair to begin with, yet it was still something she loved to touch as a child. His wide jaw constantly seemed tense now and his nostrils were flaring as if he was waiting to be attacked. Last, but not least, his smooth milk chocolate skin seemed to become paler in pigment. His skin tone was something she greatly adored because it showed such a vast contrast in her family. With her mom being the lightest and him being the darkest, she likened them to a rainbow of earthy tones and was something she prided herself on when others reproached her for her mixed family.

"H-How are you?" He gulped, shifting from one foot to the other and folding his arms across his chest. It was a defense mechanism she knew all too well, after all, she did the same, even if she wasn't really defending herself from anything, just as he was doing now.

"I'm okay. And you?" Santana awkwardly asked out of courtesy. If there was anything she really despised, it would have to be awkward conversations. She would rather just not say anything at all than experience it, especially such a strong one like this. She actually avoided eye contact after her initial inspection of him; that would have made it so much worse.

"I'm good… Um…what happened to your foot?"

"Fell down the stairs."

"I see…"

The conversation ended after that. No, is it broken? No, how did that happen? There was nothing more to say and Santana was perfectly fine with that. Then, Shannel strolled back into the room, slinging her arms around Lance like poison ivy.

"Everything alright, honey?" She purred into his ear, causing Santana to actually cringe at the undertone and sit up.

"I'm going to go see what I can help with," announced Santana, wobbling to her feet.

"No. Your mom said you need to rest, and as a doctor, I agree." Lance stated and removed himself from Shannel's hold. "Can you show Santana to her room, Nel?"

"Of course, honey."

"Thank you. I'm going to help Maribel and Matt. Yell if you need anything."

While Shannel smiled sweetly at her departing husband, Santana kept her eyes on her Converse-laden feet. Once he was out the door, the room quickly switched from awkward to hate as the spiteful woman turned her hazel gaze to his daughter.

"Listen here because this is how it's going to go. You're going to act like I showed you to your room while I find something better to do with my time. Okay?"

Santana groaned and ran a hand through her unruly hair. She forgot to comb it before they left that morning. "Whatever. Can you at least tell me where it is?"

Shannel seemed to falter at the lack of bite from the girl. It was unheard of and thus caused her to narrow her eyes in suspicion. "Second floor, last room to the front of the house."

"Fantastic. Thanks for your cooperation Wicked Witch of the West."

"Freak."

"Takes one to know one," muttered Santana as she hobbled her way up the wooden steps, which were located right outside of the massive doorway of the living room.

"Oh, by the way, my mom lives with us now." Shannel smirked as she went back into the dining room and disappeared from view. It was always satisfying to have the last word.

"Fuck."

Santana breathed out heavily upon reaching the place she would be sleeping in for the next two school years. The room was conventional, which she rebuked herself for expecting otherwise. The walls were painted a bland shade of beige with dark wooden borders, a difficult feat if there ever was any. Decoration was minimal with only a full bed occupying the wall across from the door, complete with a nightstand, a dresser table in front of it and behind the door, and a dresser along the wall to the right of the door. All of the pieces looked antique, probably made from real wood, and matched in tone (mahogany) unlike her set back in Brooklyn. She almost felt afraid to touch anything.

The room had a total of four windows thankfully; Virginia's summers were rather stifling, something she knew New York couldn't compare to no matter how much she complained. There was a 28in. x 52in. window on either side of the bed, and along the left wall, snuggled between two closets but placed above a window seat/trunk space, were two more windows. In addition to the windows, a ceiling fan with three lights was installed.

"At least I won't suffer too much, it seems." Santana noted as she conceded to her need to sit and stumbled her way over to the bed. "Ugh…first things first, I'm changing these sheets."

She sent the pale pink cover sheet and comforter a pained expression, almost considering slumping to the hard wood floor instead. Anything was better than the color that would forever burn her retinas. As quoted by her, "Me and the color pink have been in an argument for sixteen years, why should I make nice with it now?"

Santana plopped down near the head of the bed and leaned sideways until her head fell awkwardly on the pillow that once rested elegantly there. A nice and much appreciated breeze drifted through the window, a draft that felt so great that she couldn't help but to vocally express her gratitude for it. Granted, it wasn't quite as hot or humid as it could have been, but as someone accustomed to the temperatures of New York City, Santana noticed the difference the moment they left the borders of the New York state. As a matter of fact, she could feel the sweat collecting along her back, or was that simply her imagination?

She sat up to check, running her hands up and down her lower back and thoroughly checking her grey tank top for any spots of moisture. Lo and behold, "It was only my imagination." Only after confirming for a second time that her top was indeed dry did the brunette set her head on the pillow once more, or at least she attempted to do so, but something piqued her interest outside.

The view from the window was pretty decent, not that she had much to compare it to. She could mostly see trees and other houses if she looked across the horizon, not that the Naval Air Station Oceana had much to offer anyway. It was just a military base, a strict organization that the base housing embraced and displayed.

That wasn't the thing, or person rather, that caught her eye. She had to stand to see the visitors better.

There, parked in front of the white picket fence (yes, how cliché), was a beautiful cherry red 1971 Ford Mustang, but more importantly was the petite blonde seated in the passenger seat. She looked bored though that quickly became underestimated by the roll of gorgeous hazel eyes and the shifting of a golden fringe by the burst of breath she sent them. Who could blame her? The statuesque teenage boy behind the wheel and the boy with the mohawk in the back were the ones conversing with Matt. There was another person in the car but Santana couldn't quite make out whom, not that she was paying much attention in the first place. Her dark brown gaze was still locked on the enigma that was this attractive blonde.

Santana wasn't ashamed to point out the looks of men and women alike. She was comfortable enough with her heterosexuality to not care what others thought or said about her compliments, or, as she dubbed it, not giving a fuck. She picked it up from her mother who, over the years, was subjected to a lot of criticism no matter what she did.

Appearance a side, nothing else really called to Santana. The girl looked like a typical blonde in New York, pompous, privileged, and plastic. The Latina could tell right away that she would want nothing to do with the fellow teen and that they would probably have many disputes through high school.

Suddenly, all eyes were on her. It startled her a bit but was quickly remedied with a glare as she noticed her step-brother pointing up at her. He seemed to be talking about her from what she could slightly hear the general pieces of information. The beanstalk in the driver's seat shot her a boyish grin from his ducked position behind the windshield and the guy with the stupid mohawk winked and sent her a kiss. Both signs of acknowledgement were disturbing in their own way.

She could finally make out the other person in the back thanks to the abrupt scrutiny. Another blonde head poked its way out the same window mohawk was leaning out of. Her hair was braided in two childish pigtails to match her innocent bright blue eyes, and to top it off, she waved excitedly while shouting, "Hi," with a bright smile. For reasons unknown, Santana genuinely smiled at the salutation and even sent a tiny wave back. If she thought it wasn't possible before she definitely thought differently now because the girl's smile practically split her face. The blonde then proceeded to brag about how the girl waved back to the amusement of the boys and the annoyance of the other blonde.

Said blonde was now glaring at her, something that Santana took as a challenge and resumed glaring right back. She didn't know who the hell this girl thought she was, but this Latina was not going to be a pushover like her other assumed victims.

For what seemed like years of battling did a hazel hurricane clash with a dark earthquake. Neither noticed the absence of Matt, who was called back by his step-father for continued assistance, nor Finn putting the car in drive to make a U-turn. It wasn't until the last minute that either recognized the impending departure, but when they did, a smug smirk quickly replaced Santana's tight lips. It seemed to confuse the blonde until Santana followed up with the middle finger. The look of abhorrence upon the girl's visage before the vehicle disappeared from view was more than worth the fit of laughter that almost threw Santana off her feet.

"What's got you choking up like that?" Unfortunately, Matt's unexpected entrance made her trip over her feet in her plight to turn around fast enough. The pain that ripped through her ankle was not pleasant and tore a whine from the depths of her throat. "Oh shi- I am so sorry, San."

He quickly set the box he was carrying in front of the dressing table and rushed to her side.

"Are you okay?" He asked, helping her to her feet and placing her back on the bed.

"Peachy." Santana hissed, kicking off her sneakers so she could reach down and unravel the wrap around her ankle.

"I am so sorry."

"It's fine." She rolled her eyes as she assessed the damage. "Friends of yours?"

"What?"

"Outside, in the Mustang."

"Oh, right. Yeah, that was Finn, Quinn, Puck, and Brittany. Don't you remember?"

Of course she remembered. How could she forget? _Oh crap,_ how _could _she forget? Finn was the boy wonder driving the fancy car and Quinn was the pretentious one in the passenger seat. Puck, or Noah as he used to be called, left a bad taste in her mouth; honestly, who came up with that nickname? Finally, there was Brittany, who she could never think badly about. Why such a girl started hanging out with such a crowd was beyond Santana. Puck was such a troublemaker, always had been and probably always would be. Quinn was obviously a bitch now, and Finn, what wasn't wrong with that kid?

"You're friends with them?"

"Benefits of joining the football team. I'll re-introduce you all some time." Matt smiled good-naturedly.

And that's how Santana knew it was going to be one hell of a school year…years.

_Shit_.

* * *

**I can't tell you how long I debated over posting this. Not only am I extremely self-conscious of my writing, this is also a tribute of sorts to a dearly beloved family member of mine. She's going through a hard time at the moment that breaks my heart to see, so, I thought I would write a little something in memory of the many great things she has done in her life. She's a constant inspiration to me and someone I deeply admire. I don't know if I'll ever show her this, but it gives me a great sense of pride to indirectly present the remarkable things she has accomplished. Not everything is 100% accurate; there will just be similar events that defined this amazing woman. I'll leave the determination of what events are real and what events are not up to you, the reader.**

**Review if you wish, I will never demand that of you. I will ask, however, that if you do review that it is constructive criticism or other positive messages to guide me along. I wish to achieve better writing skills out of this as much as I'm sure you all wish to achieve a new world to traverse.**

**I do have one question, though. I originally thought of this story with the 1960's to present in mind being as that's the time period many of the real events take place, but as I wrote the first chapter I thought I could definitely apply this to present times and continuing on as well. What are your thoughts on this? Stay true to the original path or go for something more current? The story will flow well either way, mind you.**

**Also, I will try to post every week, probably every Thursday, if not twice a week with a Tuesday and Thursday schedule.**

**That's all I have to say for now. I hope you enjoy this first chapter.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Night of Regrets

* * *

_July 26, 1975_

A cacophonous sound rung through the air, disturbing the deep sleep of one exhausted Santana Lopez. Though the silver wind-up alarm went ignored after its initial wake up shrill, it continued to chime, jittering across the night stand until it crashed to the floor. It was that startling sound, and the yelling of one distinctive voice, that roused the brunette.

At first, the Latina teen merely sat up right in bed, dark locks a jumbled mess upon her head, and drool crusted along full lips. Dark eyes had yet to present themselves to an equally dark room, but judging by the furrowing of eyebrows at the irritating noise, they weren't planning to open any time soon.

"Santana! I know you hear your name being called!"

That Southern drawl drew a painful groan from said teen's mouth for two reasons. For one, while she was still half-asleep, she subconsciously recognized that accent and tone anywhere. Secondly, she wanted nothing more than to flop back and succumb to the dream world once more, which she did as much regardless of the screeching alarm. Unluckily, her lack of an actual response brought a series of furious knocks at the door. As if that entire racket wasn't enough to wake the dead, an infuriated voice followed immediately.

"Santana!"

The tenor and proximity of the cry was what broke Santana's sleep completely. Thus, with a clatter and a yelp of pain, the teenager found herself wide awake on the hard wood floor. She keened and griped as she pulled herself back on the disheveled bed, facing the direction of the door as she gathered her wits.

"What?" Santana hissed, one hand on her ankle, one holding the back of her head, and eyes steadily adjusting to the dark.

"Excuse me?" Was the indignant reply. "Open the door!"

"Shit," muttered the brunette as she reluctantly stood and stumbled her way by the stack of boxes lined about the room. She first made her way to the almost-forgotten alarm to turn it off, setting it back on the nightstand and silently pledging to switch it with her Sony Digimatic later.

"Open the door, now."

"I'm coming." _Jesus_. "Yes, Mrs. Hurst?"

There, standing in the now open doorway, was an irate middle age woman. Santana may not have met the woman often, but it was a face she would never forget. How could she when Charmaine and Shannel strongly resembled one another? Then again, and like they say, like mother, like daughter. In this case, never has a statement applied as strongly as this.

Both African American women were quite tall, with Shannel only beating her mother by a few inches. While Shannel's face was round and framed by lengthy, stylized dark brown hair, Charmaine's face was elongated with a mop of lighter hair. The things they had in common the most were their steely, hazel eyes, high cheek bones, a sense of entitlement, some sort of primal need to brag, and they both hated Santana for reasons yet to be established. The fact that they were born and raised in Atlanta didn't help matters, a mutual feeling of dislike between "Yankees" and Southern folk. Additionally, it increased the level of manners and attitudes in their presence, something Santana forgot too often.

"Did you not hear me calling you, child?" Charmaine spat with hands upon her hips.

"No, I was taking a nap. I apologize." Santana smiled. If there was anything that affects the Hurst matriarch, it was not taking the bait. Smiling while doing so was a bonus she discovered after the handful of meetings between the two. It took a lot to simmer Santana's temper, but this was the exception as amusement was the exchange. "May I ask why you called upon me, Mrs. Hurst?"

The bitter woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously, yet another trait mother and daughter shared. They were a paranoid pair, perhaps guilty over knowing how wrong and evil they are subconsciously.

"It's time for dinner."

"I'll be down after I wash up."

Charmaine looked dubious of that prospect but accepted the answer. "Hurry it up."

With that, the older woman turned and practically stomped away, leaving a relieved Santana to close the door in her retreat. There was a reason why she and Matt used to call her Cruella de Vil. The woman was quite possibly pure evil and they swore they saw her kick a puppy once.

"Please, oh, please do not let this be a mistake." Santana whispered to the ceiling, running both hands through her messy mane in a lackadaisical attempt to tame it with a quick finger comb.

Santana glanced about the unfamiliar room; it was even stranger in the dark. A faint light cast through the front windows, the result of the front porch lights, surely. It wasn't enough to illuminate the room, yet it seemed like it would be a nuisance if she slept on the right side of the bed. Good thing she liked the left side anyway, it gave her a sense of comfort being as she was accustomed to sleeping against a wall in Brooklyn.

Other than that, the tower of boxes placed about the room didn't sit well with her. She wasn't afraid of the dark, she swears on it, but it made sleeping in an unknown room more uncomfortable. She should have unpacked the moment everything was unloaded. On the other hand, she was lazy, overheated, and tired, even if she didn't do much.

Now, more than a few seconds ago, did she regret not following her original plan. Part of it was anxiety; the other was due to her inability to find a clean shirt for dinner.

Charmaine didn't approve of Santana's selection of clothes, never did and probably never will. If it wasn't because her wardrobe was too drab, it was because it wasn't feminine enough. If it wasn't because her wardrobe wasn't feminine enough, it was because it was too "skimpy." She supposedly looked too thin occasionally, yet she was often called fat in a subtle Southern way; there was just no pleasing that woman. Santana knew she was fortunate to have clothes, no matter what she was bought or given. Besides, she was only eleven at the time; fashion was the last thing on her mind.

To the contrary, fashion was everything now. Short shorts that showed off her long legs, miniskirts that flirted with the male ego, crop tops for her hard-earned abs, and everything in between that looked exceptional on her frame. She was your typical teen in that standpoint, minus the need for attention, but she wasn't stupid. There was no way she was going to dinner with Charmaine in her tank top. Santana was surprised she didn't get a lecture at the door over the piece of clothing.

Nonetheless, Santana went about rummaging through the top boxes, cursing herself for not labeling them as advised by her mother. Finding a suitable shirt took a few minutes, still, she eventually scrounged up a faded red t-shirt, round-neck and short sleeve, which went nicely with her equally faded bell-bottom jeans. She then shoved her feet as delicately as possible in her all-stars and headed for the bathroom down the hall (she remembered that much).

Once inside, she quickly went about washing her hands and did a quick splash of water to the face that seemed to serve as the genuine wake up call. Without meaning to, her mind rewound to her mother's departure late that afternoon.

Maribel would have stayed for dinner, as _graciously_ offered by Shannel, except Santana knew better. Dinner was already going to be problematic with Lance's daughter present, but having his ex-wife overstay her welcome was begging for an atomic meal. As such, her mother used Santana's other aunt as an excuse to get back on the road. She claimed to have promised to stop by Richmond and visit her older sister, though, as four o' clock was fast approaching, she probably would be stopping there to sleep after all.

Either way, Santana felt slightly saddened to see her go; it just made everything all the more official. And as they hugged for the final time, with promises of calling every now and then and possibly visiting on the holidays, Santana couldn't help but feel like she was being abandoned.

"Santana!" God, she really hated that woman, especially how she pronounced her name. The extension of the first syllable was too long and too strong, completely unnatural compared to its native tongue. "The dinner is getting cold!"

Santana huffed and glanced at her reflection in the mirror/medicine cabinet over the sink.

"Just two years," she mouthed to her dripping face before grabbing a towel off the rack by the sink and drying off.

"What took so long, sis?" Matt inquired with worried eyes. He really was her only comfort in this house.

"I changed my shirt and washed up a bit, that's all." Santana answered steadily as she entered the spacious dining room, taking her place beside him. "Excuse my lateness."

"You're excused." Charmaine tutted, jerking her sharp chin up in a grandiose manner. It made Santana's eyebrows wrinkle at the gesture and clench the seat of the chair until her knuckles cracked. However, she grinned and beared it all, folding her hands albeit reluctantly on top of the table.

"Shall we say grace?"

Santana hoped Matt planned the seating arrangements, because by the power of some great deity, Santana didn't have to grasp hands with neither of the wicked witches. With her and Matt on one side of the long table, she only had to worry about making eye contact with the two women on the other side…as if that was going to happen. Not surprisingly, her father was at the head of the table, which she had the better fortune of holding hands with. Her step-brother boldly and bravely held the hand of Charmaine.

They all bowed their heads as Charmaine prayed, though in a matter of seconds Matt and Santana lifted theirs as grace began. They looked to one another and soundlessly snickered. The two used to always do this when younger, daring to see what they could accomplish without getting caught.

"_Thanks for the save_." Santana lipped, jerking her head in his grandmother's direction.

Matt shrugged at the unnecessary show of gratitude. Sometimes even he couldn't stand her, not that she made it hard.

Unfortunately, the lifting of his shoulders jiggled his arms and alerted a certain someone of some potential mischief. Luckily, Santana spotted Charmaine's head rising and quickly bowed hers again; Matt speedily followed without command. As they felt the burn of the woman's glare they tried not to laugh, it was as if they hadn't grown up at all. Only once they were sure the heated stare had cooled off did they risk checking if the coast was clear. It was.

"_Sadly I couldn't save you from all of her wrath_," he mouthed back.

"_What do you mean?_"

"_She has the room next to yours_."

"_WHAT?_"

Matt was geared to repeat himself but prayer was over. That's not why Santana said what, she heard – or read his lips rather – perfectly fine. She wished what she saw was incorrect except it wasn't.

"Is something wrong, Santana?" Lance's voice jostled her from her shock, earning a frantic nod and a forced smile in turn. "Then, uh, could you please pass the mashed potatoes?"

Along with the smashed spuds there were multiple pieces of glassware filled with peas, carrots, and string beans separately. A bowl of what looked like homemade biscuits, a pouring dish steaming with gravy beside it, occupied the end of the table near Matt. At the center of it all was a roast beef, already sliced and waiting for pickings.

Santana's growling stomach was an ample sign of how hungry she was. A side from pit stop snacks along the ride, she hadn't eaten much. The mouth-watering aromas was more than enough for her to happily pass along the requested dish, momentarily dismissing the piece of information Matt revealed, and began piling her own plate.

First fork load of mashed potatoes with gravy and roast beef should and would have had her squealing internally for something other than rice and beans, something she ate far too often thanks to the increase of her mother's hours. What should have been an explosion of flavors almost turned into Santana spitting the food back out. The potatoes and roast beef had no flavor; a few crucial parts that the gravy should have helped if not enhanced were missing. It almost had her diving for the glass of water sitting in front of her.

Upon noticing that no one else seemed to have a problem, Santana swallowed as best as she could without a grimace and asked, "Who cooked dinner?"

"That would be the wonderful skills of mother." Lance smiled, or what was considered a smiled, at Charmaine. "She's been a blessing around the house."

"Oh dear, thank you."

At that, Santana couldn't fathom another bite, and she was still quite hungry. She was almost ashamed for not remembering the horrifying cooking abilities of the soulless woman. It actually amazed her that someone from the south lacked the expertise to make flavorful food; it was practically unheard of.

"You're not eating?" Matt wondered, bringing all eyes on her for the second time that day. Judging by the twinkle in his dark brown eyes and the slight twitch in his lips that begged to grow into a smile, he did it on purpose. She shot him a scornful glare for that.

"I-I'm not as hungry as I thought. I just remembered that mom and I stopped by a McDonald's before we reached Portsmouth." Santana announced to everyone, sparing half a second glancing at each of them.

"But that was hours ago, you must be starving by now." He instigated.

She aimed a poorly planned kick to the side of his leg, drawing a hiss of discomfort from her and a half yowl-half guffaw from him.

"No playing at the table." Charmaine chastised, only to turn her eyes to Santana alone for further comment. "Besides, if I had known all of that, I would have stuck with my first mind when I forgot that you were staying with us. I would not have made as much food"

"It won't go to waste Charmaine." Lance hastily interjected before she could say any more. "You should eat, Santana. It's only seven-thirty so you'll definitely be hungry later if you don't eat now."

"But _papi_-"

"Eat." He commanded, then turned back to eating his stocked piled plate. How he could stomach it all was truly beyond Santana as she begrudgingly continued eating.

"You're looking a little thin anyway, Santana." Shannel gleamed over the rim of her raised glass of water, taking a quick sip and setting it down.

_Are you fucking-_ "I run track and field, long distance mostly, so I can't afford any bulk for that."

"Really?" Matt piped in, receiving a confident nod from Santana. "Far out. I don't know how you can stand it. I hate when the coach makes us run."

"It's in the family," she smiled to herself, pushing some peas and carrots around on her plate. They weren't nearly as bad as the string beans. "My mom ran long distance and my great uncle was the man when it came to hurtles."

"That's right; your mom was one of the best long distance runners at our high school." Lance's contribution to a conversation about Maribel almost made Santana's jaw drop. In place of that, she smiled a bittersweet smile at the look on his face, memories of better times clearly choking him. He then shook his head and gave her a stern yet proud gaze. "It's great that you're following her footsteps."

"Hopefully not all of her footsteps." Charmaine included with a cackle.

"I think my mother is doing rather well for herself, considering she's a thirty-four year old divorced mother with two children and two jobs."

Lance readily diffused the situation. The fact that his mother-in-law and wife were insulting his daughter in a not so subtle way didn't bother him enough, but he knew to keep an altercation from rising.

"Speaking of, how is Juliet?"

"Taking into account that she's the reason why I'm here, I would say she must be ecstatic right now."

"Who can blame her?" Shannel giggled.

"What do you mean?" Lance frowned more at his daughter's feedback.

Santana was already fed up with her father's absence of control over what was being said to her, at least when she stayed with him before he would protect and defend her. Who was this man?

"She pushed me down the stairs, mom didn't believe me, we got in an argument, and so she sent me here."

It wasn't until a few seconds after that Santana realized she more than likely shouldn't have divulged all of that. The expression of rage steadily building in her father's eyes attested to that, and more so when he slammed his silverware down on his empty plate, brusquely wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stormed away from the table and into the kitchen. The slam of a door, certainly the one to the den, immediately resounded.

"Way to ruin dinner, Santana." Shannel pointed out smugly. She set her silverware on her cleared plate as well, wiped her mouth, and then stood to trail after her husband. Her demeanor of lust and glee made the Latina sick.

"One of the greatest lessons in life is learning when to keep your mouth shut." Charmaine deprecated, her actions repeating the same motions of leaving the table. "Dishes await you."

"I'll help." Matt whispered the moment his grandmother was out of earshot. By the sound of it, she was heading upstairs to her room.

"Thanks." Santana sighed.

Together, they gathered the dirty plates and tableware first, depositing those along the counter next to the sink. Then, as Santana filled the metal gulf with water and dish liquid, Matt brought in the food, placing them on the island counter situated in the middle of the kitchen. Silently they worked as a unit, from scrapping any leftovers off the plates and into the trash to putting the food into Tupperware and into the refrigerator. Santana washed, Matt dried and put the dishes in their proper places. In less than thirty minutes the kitchen was cleaned, trash was toss in the garbage can outside, and the two found themselves sitting opposite one another at the island to talk accordingly.

"What do you think they're doing in there?" Matt wondered out loud, pointing at the den's door over his shoulder.

Santana, not really wanting to think about her father and that wench, feigned stupidity and pretended that he was pointing to the fridge directly behind him. "I'd imagine the ketchup and the mustard are totally doin' it."

Her step-brother shivered since he knew she regretted saying that, it was too close to what could have been the truth regarding their parents. "Grody. But seriously, why was he so angry?"

"What's with the afro, by the way?" She raised an eyebrow at the mini frizzy hairstyle, reaching a hand across the table to feel its growth.

He slapped her hand away only to run a hand through it himself. "You mess with the 'fro, you gots to go."

"Okay, brotha' man." Santana chuckled, throwing up a clenched fist with a nod.

"What it is, what it is."

They laughed at their antics.

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"I don't want to talk about it," she concurred, folding her arms on the table and then settling her head on them.

They sat in silence for a few minutes until Santana began to tap her fingers rhythmically on the wood. Matt chimed in by beating his knuckles for every two taps she gave. Every now and then she switched it up until it was a battle between the two. They were having fun, temporarily forgetting about serious issues, until the den door opened and out walked Lance and Shannel. For satisfaction's sake, Shannel looked annoyed. Santana's father, notwithstanding, still appeared to be enraged.

The two stood before them, not expecting their children to still be present and maybe worried that they might have eavesdropped. Lance even opened his mouth to address as much, but shut it shortly after instead. He bid them a quiet good night, grabbed his wife's hand, and led them up the steps from the kitchen to the second floor.

Silence swept the two teens under once more.

"Do you keep in touch with your father?" Santana was the one to shatter it this round.

"Not as much…not since mom remarried."

"Do you miss him?"

"Sometimes." Matt answered honestly. "He comes to my home games more than mom does, and we talk on the phone once a month."

"Hm…"

"You?"

"Can't say I…I mean, I do…sometimes. Most of the times I just don't think about it, you know?" She looked up at him.

"I know." He nodded.

"I just…I feel like she's cheating on her responsibilities as a parent. Even though she claimed it was for my benefit, I can't help but feel like it was more for hers. You know?"

Tears were beginning to slide down her face. She may have changed the subject, but Matt knew what she was talking about. He understood it perfectly and stood, walked to her side of the table, pulled her to her feet, and hugged her tightly.

"I know."

He really did. How could he not when his father said to his face he didn't want a kid following him from base to base. His father may have supposedly meant he didn't want the constant traveling to affect his son, but Matt read between the lines. He knew his father just didn't want him at all, even if it meant being with his mom, who he thought, quite frankly, was the worse of the two evils.

"I know."

* * *

**I'm sorry for the lateness of this upload. There isn't a real excuse for it, I merely started writing the chapter late. It's actually shorter than the first chapter, but I like to think that's a good thing. I'd rather surprise my readers with long chapters than feel like I have to constantly deliver them. Don't ask why that's how I feel, because I do not know. I just think chapters from now on will be between 3k and 4k words. **

**Regardless, I can't express how delighted I am by those who have reviewed let alone have taken an interest in this story. I'm still skeptical on how well this will be received, but the feedback so far, verbal or not, has been more than encouraging to push that little demon down and keep moving forward. Thank you all so much!**

**Review time! I hope you don't mind if I don't respond to all of you. All reviews are appreciated, but there are only a couple I wanted to address.**

**supercrevette: Santana was heterosexual in the beginning of the show, or so we all thought until developed further, and I wanted to stick to that same development.**

**Guest: Haha, would you believe me if I told you that little moment between Quinn and Santana was going to be one of those cheesy love at first sight moments? At the last minute I decided to change it.**

**Fun Facts:**

**1. I definitely modeled Charmaine after Cruella de Vil. It seemed fitting at the time.**

**2. 1960's to the 1970's is my favorite time period thanks to the person this story is influenced by. I can't get enough of hearing her stories of growing up and her trials and tribulations during this time. (By the way, I decided to keep the 60's/70's+ as the setting, if you haven't noticed already.)**

**3. The Walker house is modeled after the house I grew up in, with a few tweaks here and there. Yes, my grandmother lived there. No, she wasn't evil, she just had Alzheimer's. **

**4. I debated long and hard over Matt having an afro. Dijon Talton doesn't look like he has the hair texture to grow an afro, but I took a leap of faith and made his Glee character have one anyway. After the Funk episode, I was mildly disappointed not a single Glee member had an afro, especially since Give Up the Funk was released in 1976. It's the fucking 70's, who didn't have an afro? Haha, okay, lots of people didn't have one, but my story must have one. Afros are awesome.**

**Last and final thing, the next chapter may be delayed as well. I start school this coming Wednesday, and from then until December my schedule is 3 classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I picked a perfect time to post a story, right? I'll try to stay on top of updates, but no promises.**

**I hope you all enjoy this chapter and there's much to look forward to with the next one. Santana gains friends...sort of. Guess who they are.**


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